


Civic Duty

by Fudgyokra



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: 60s Themed, Age Difference, Anal Sex, Bondage, Church Sex, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Humor, M/M, Non-Consensual Groping, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Religious Cults, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Virgin Sacrifice, Virginity Kink, believe it or not the tone of this is dumb and funny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 00:16:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16459820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgyokra/pseuds/Fudgyokra
Summary: When Robin unwittingly becomes a sacrifice for one of Gotham’s niche cults, Deathstroke offers to “rescue” him.





	Civic Duty

**Author's Note:**

> Holy prompt fill, Batman! Since 60s Robin is my favorite version of Dick (next to Discowing) and SladeDick is one of my favorite DC pairings, I decided to go retro for SladeRobin week! Hope y’all enjoy this largely humorous piece of filth. I gotta say, it was one of the most fun things I’ve written in a while, lol.
> 
> Day 6: Virgin Sacrifice | Bondage

Dick thinks this might be the most embarrassing situation he’s ever gotten himself into. No, really. He’s been at this Robin thing for nearly a decade and likes to think he’s gotten fairly good at it, at least until it comes to situations like the one he’s in, which is about the time his confidence begins waning. After all, it’s more than a little hard to look like a good-n-proper sidekick when you’re stripped down to your jock and strung up between two support beams like a meal for the birds.

Currently, a man in a black robe and a colorful mask is appraising him with gloved but no less chilly hands, and while Dick ruminates on how he could talk his way out of this, the man gets a rather tight grip around his jock and rubs a probing thumb over the head of his cock through the dense fabric.

“Whoa!” Dick exclaims, trying to keep it light, “I don’t suppose you’d wanna take me to dinner first, eh, fella?”

The man grunts, feeling over Dick’s balls and back to his ass, like a doctor would during a physical. To be honest, it was making him a little queasy, halfway because he’s never been touched like that before (which is, unfortunately, why he was here in the first place) and halfway because it was a masked stranger doing the touching. Finally, the hands come off and Dick relaxes muscles he hadn’t realized he’d been tensing. “Y’know, mister,” he says after a long, awkward moment of staring at an unmoving mask, “I think it’s a little prudish to assume I’m a—well, that I haven’t slept with anyone just ‘cause of how old I am.”

“You _are_ eighteen, aren’t you?” the man asks. Dick can’t decide whether to laugh at the absurdity of the question or roll his eyes at the offense of it. He settles on nodding mutely, which seems to please the stranger. Or maybe it doesn’t. It’s hard to tell without being able to see his face. At any rate, he nods once and pads off into the shadows, leaving Dick alone to be a sacrificial lamb to the slaughter, come sunrise.

He tugs experimentally at his bonds, starting with the ones on his wrists and then moving on to his ankles. Tight as can be, he thinks miserably. Batman really should be here by now, but he maintains his composure, saving the panic for when things got direr.

Which they did approximately eight seconds later. Curse his bad luck.

“Now, fancy that.” The voice, contained from behind a garish orange and black cloth mask, belongs to a certain bastard named Slade Wilson, who’s been tailing Dick ever since he can remember. He would have preferred to be sacrificed early. “You’re in quite the predicament, aren’t you, birdie?”

Dick hates the nickname, but more so the fact that he now has to explain to Deathstroke the damn Terminator precisely what put him here. “This cuckoo cult wants to sacrifice me because I haven’t been…” he pauses to curl his lip, and whispers, “ _deflowered_.” Slade laughs once, a gruff bark of a thing. Dick narrows his eyes and wishes, not for the first time tonight, that the cultists had at least left on his mask, so it might have covered some of the flush spreading across his nose and cheeks. “I bet you’re just tickled pink about this, aren’t you?”

“You could say that, yeah.”

“Why are you here, anyway?”

“Bit of business,” Slade says without expounding, tucking his gun into his pocket so he can put his hands on his hips. “It can certainly wait, if you’re looking for a little help.”

Dick presses his lips together in a tight, petulant frown and narrows his eyes. It’s the best “fuck you” he can give without saying as much, but Slade seems insistent on sticking around anyway, because he doesn’t budge an inch from where he stands. For a while he simply scrutinizes, his one good eye glinting visibly in the moonlight filtering through the window. Dick is reminded suddenly of his near-nakedness and reflexively tries to close his legs, only to get the second reminding blow that he was tied spread-eagled and therefore unable to preserve his modesty any further than what his jock covers. Or fight back if Slade tries to kill him, now that he thinks about it.

As if reading his thoughts, the man approaches the altar, arms crossed over his huge, intimidating chest. Dick isn’t afraid, but he is beginning to feel the telltale creep of nerves itching his skin, even if there didn’t seem to be any malice in the mercenary’s intentions so far. In fact, by all accounts he seems quite jovial, judging by his tone since that’s all that can be used as an indicator. So, when he asks in that taunting way of his if Dick is scared yet, he answers truthfully with a brief shake of his head.

“Batman’ll be here soon. He’ll save me, and then we’ll foil whatever plot you’ve got up your sleeve, Deathstroke.”

Slade tsk-ed. “Nuh-uh, kid. Daddy Bat’s on the other side of town right now dealing with a gang bust. And here I am, offering to help you out, only to be _threatened_ …” He wags a finger in Dick’s face, which makes him desperately want to bite it. He refrains, barely.

“Firstly, I’m not a kid. Secondly, so what? You act like scum, you get treated like scum.”

“Come on, kiddo,” Slade continues, ignoring Dick’s disdain while he maintains his stupid mock-offended voice, “that really hurts my feelings.”

“You don’t have any feelings,” Dick spits back.

Promptly, Slade gathers his jaw in a bruising grip with one huge hand and leans in close. “Now, that isn’t true.” His voice is calm but cold, with something hostile lurking beneath that makes Dick’s pupils shrink, despite himself. “I feel sorry for you.”

He mumbles, with Slade’s fingers still digging into his flesh, “Why’s that?”

“Because those cultist creeps are going to tear you apart, of course.” Finally, he lets go of his face, lowering the hand to poke at his chest instead. “They’ll rip you wide open, and you’re gonna scream and cry and bleed, but they’ll just keep going, one after the other, ‘til they’re all satisfied.”

Dick’s eyes go wide, face coloring at the unwanted visuals. “No, I—I’m getting out of here way before they get to me,” he says, with a measure of doubt creeping into his words. Somewhere in the building something suddenly thumps, scaring him nearly out of his skin until he gasps out, “Okay! Okay, fine, let me out of here and I’ll pay you back.” He’s not stupid enough to think Slade will do a good deed for free. “I have the money. Name your price.”

“I’m not interested in your money. I only want to make sure you don’t end up in this tricky predicament again. Who’s to say letting you go now will do any good? They’ll find you again, and again, and again…” Slade slides a palm down Dick’s chest, pausing to pat at his stomach. “Until they get what they want.” Here, he grabs a handful of his crotch, making him jump and emit a very unseemly noise of shock. “And trust me, they want you bad, birdie.”

“What?” Dick asks, too incredulous to even squirm away from the man’s hand which still firmly grips him through his jock. “How do you know that?”

“They talk. Matter of fact, so do a lot of people. You wanna know what they say?”

Dick silently considers for perhaps a few seconds too long before wrinkling his nose. “No, I don’t.”

“Then how about you help _me_ help _you_.” Again, pointedly, he massages him through what’s left of his clothes, prompting him to bite down on the inside of his cheek to stop a sound from escaping. This wasn’t like how the cultists touched, probative and assessing, but far more suggestive. It makes his cock twitch, which he hopes to god Slade can’t feel.

“I felt that,” he says.

Dick grumbles something incomprehensible that may or may not have been sacrilegious. Then, “What are you, psycho? No! I’m not letting you…well, you know.”

“What do I know?” Slade taunts, still rubbing insistently. “I mean, besides how to make it feel _good_ instead of hurting like a sonuvabitch.”

There’s a pause while Dick mulls over his options, but it’s getting a lot harder to do than it should be, what with the stimulation he’s getting. Which reminds him: “Quit touching me, you creep. I haven’t said yes yet!”

“Think about it. Can’t be a virgin sacrifice if you aren’t a virgin. You really want those religious fanatics to be your first? And second…and third…and—”

“Quit,” he repeats, waterier this time. His face falls at the recognition that he really does have a choice to make here. Surely there are a hundred other ways, but then again, the sun was frightfully close to rising and that means he doesn’t have much time to deliberate. Hesitantly, he asks, “And then you’ll let me go?”

Slade crosses himself. What a bastard. But okay, the Boy Wonder _does_ have a reputation to maintain, and whether the cultists kill him or not, being turned out by a pack of separatist freaks isn’t very good for his image. Slowly, with a pout for posterity, he forces himself to nod. He reasons that he’s bartering for his life, since, in a convoluted kind of way, he is. At least, that’s how he makes sense of why he lets a scummy killer-for-hire strip off his jock and get an eyeful of his modesty. “Cute,” he comments. Dick regrets his choice already.

“This was a bad idea.”

“Don’t be so uptight.” When Slade swats him on the ass, Dick cringes as the sound reverberates through the temple.

He watches the man rifle through his utility belt and pull out, to his annoyance, a miniature tub of Vaseline. The kind people use for lip balm. He offers a deadpan, “You can’t be serious,” like there would be any suitable alternatives for lubricant on his person, either.

In answer, he gets, “It’s this or nothing, kid,” and that shuts him right up.

Slade yanks off one glove, then the other, letting them flutter to the floor like so many gaudy orange leaves. After uncapping the tub, he dips two fingers in to swipe up a glob of substance, which serves as a shiny, gelatinous reminder of what Dick has honest-to-god agreed to tonight.

“Hold this,” he commands before thrusting the tub into Dick’s palm and curling his fingers around it for him. The newly-freed hand settles on his hip, which makes him feel grounded for reasons of which he doesn’t entirely approve. He’ll take the comforts as they come, though, especially once the first finger brushes against his hole and, instinctively, he jumps up on his toes to get away.

That seems to be where the hand on his hip comes into play, because Slade uses it to force him back onto the balls of his feet so he can work the finger inside him without much resistance, other than the tight clench of Dick’s muscles, which certainly don’t cooperate with the rest of him. Meaning, of course, that the combination of Slade’s authority and the foreign intrusion make his cock stand at attention like the traitor it is.

“You know you’re gonna have to relax, right?” Slade asks, being peculiarly long-suffering considering who he is as a person.

Just like earlier with the masked stranger who’d unceremoniously felt him up, in his rush of nerves Dick cranks out the jokes. “Gracious, I don’t get a kiss before you jump in? Not very romantic.”

It’s met with a sigh. “If your hands were free, I’d make you do this part yourself.”

“Never let anyone tell you you’re not a complete gentleman, Mister Deathstroke, sir.” Dick only narrowly stops himself from rolling his eyes, which is good, because otherwise he might have been distracted from the way Slade pulls his hand from his hip, so he can reach up to peel his mask back and off. Dick has seen his face once or twice before, but it doesn’t ever get any less strange. It also doesn’t ever cease to make his heart start beating quicker, not that he’d ever admit to that in a million years, thank you very much.

“I like the ‘sir,’ business,” Slade says when he tilts his face to look Dick in the eye. “Let’s keep that up.”

Dick wants to say, “bite me” or something along those lines, but that’s when the man humors his joking request and captures his mouth. For a moment he doesn’t know what to do, so he remains wide-eyed and still until chapped lips start moving against his own, coaxing him into relaxing and reciprocating. He decides he doesn’t hate this, especially not when a tongue darts out to swipe at the seam of his lips and open them up, allowing for proper access. Every slide of the man’s tongue against his own is electric, and he’s at the tail end of a satisfied sigh when a finger breaches him below, turning the sound into a sharp gasp instead.

A hand makes itself known at the back of his neck, holding him in the kiss that’s becoming more domineering by the second. He doesn’t hate that, either, actually; contrarily, it serves to steady him while he takes the finger down to the last knuckle, several shallow thrusts later to ensure it has effectively spread around the makeshift lube. By the time they part, Dick is panting pathetically against the man’s mouth.

“Happy?” Slade asks.

A second later there’s a second finger alongside the first, shocking his system with a twinge of pain. “Um—no!” He’s not sure if that’s his answer to the question or to the sensation, but Slade shushes him either way.

There’s a longer wait for this one to feel comfortable, but pretty soon it’s just another intrusion. With a little bit of focus, he can will his muscles to relax enough for a third. Dick doesn’t think he’s been quiet for so many consecutive minutes in his life without being asleep, but that all comes to an end when the bunch of fingers crooks into a spot that forcibly extracts from him a strange grunt-moan hybrid he didn’t even know he was capable of making until just now.

Slade chokes off the sound with a firm palm across his mouth, still thrusting against the spot with brutal accuracy. “Hush, kid. Don’t want to wake the crazies just yet. They wouldn’t be too happy to find their perfect little virgin’s in the process of being soiled.”

Dick’s face colors darkly. He tries to glare, but the moment Slade drops his hand and curls it around his cock, his brows lift, and his mouth drops open. The calloused warmth pumping him is just right enough, combined with the fingers still religiously hammering away at his prostate, that he feels the pressure tip over into bliss, and he cums across the man’s knuckles with what would have been a shamefully loud whine, had Slade not kissed him again to swallow it down.

After a long time spent breathing in shallow, heated puffs, Dick offers an emphatic, “Golly.”

The corners of Slade’s mouth turn upward. “Yeah, kid. ‘Golly’ is right.”

He can’t muster the energy to be offended by what he was confident was a mockery, so he just grunts and hopes that conveys the message well enough.

“You just sit tight, all right? Daddy’s gonna make you a man.”

What he means to respond with is an emphatic, “Ugh,” but it must have gotten lost in translation, because what actually comes out is a throaty “Hnng” sound. Worse, it’s accompanied with a twitch of the hips that might have read to someone as scummy as Deathstroke like _desperate_. That was ludicrous, of course, and the moment Dick gets his strength back and escapes these stupid ropes he would make sure he knew it.

He doesn’t realize he has a death grip on the damn tub of Vaseline until Slade has to pry it from his fingers, but his numbness abates at the sound of a belt clasp coming undone. He must perk outwardly, because he hears the man chuckle. “Down, boy,” he says, and whatever is wrong with Dick mandates that his cock twitch eagerly at the degradation.

The belt unloops, the zipper comes down. Slade pushes his pants beneath his hipbones and Dick’s face blanches. “No way,” he says. “There’s no way that’s gonna… _fit_.” He doesn’t think he’s said anything particularly sexy, but he can see, as plainly as he could the bonds holding his limbs spread, how the organ flexes in interest.

“It will,” he’s assured. Still, he has his doubts. Slade slicks up with the Vaseline as well as the substance allows, which, despite the odd greasiness, Dick finds is rather suitable. Nerves return when Slade circles behind him, in the same instant a twinge of arousal lights up his senses. “You ready, birdie?”

He doesn’t expect it to feel like the fingers did, but he also doesn’t know what he _was_ expecting. What it turns out to be is blunt, wet heat pushing up and inside his body, stretching him wider than fingers could ever hope to accomplish.

Teeth clench subconsciously, but Slade’s mouth finds his jaw and nips in encouragement. His beard scrapes across Dick’s sensitive skin with each pass, which serves only to make the attraction in his gut burn hotter, brighter. It occurs to him, belatedly, that he should remember he was just doing this to get out of being sacrificial meat, not because he was attracted to Slade Wilson, or the idea of being speared on his cock in the middle of a dark temple with restraints forcibly splaying him out. Certainly not.

For a second, there’s a disconnect between his brain and reality; that is, by the time he hears the long, embarrassing moan ringing through the building, it’s too late to do anything about the fact it’d come from him. He can’t rightfully stop it because he’s too busy twisting around in his ropes to escape the source of his distress, which is currently only a couple inches deep and yet feels like an impossible stretch.

“Calm down, would you?” Slade’s saying in his ear, but Dick still has one foot in La-La Land and can only make more useless noises in response. They seem to be accepted, anyway, because there’s a snort, then, “Should’ve known you’d take it so well for me.”

“Not true…” As if to spite himself, Dick moans again at the next inches slipping in and lets his eyes roll back. “Oh— _ohh_ …”

He doesn’t expect the harsh growl against his neck, or the way Slade’s teeth dig into the skin when he snaps his hips up and buries deep, to the sound of an alarmingly loud shout on Dick’s behalf. His mouth stays open like he’s going to make more sounds, but there’s nothing else, just him closing his eyes and taking a shaky breath while he comes to terms with the idea of having a deadly mercenary bottoming out inside him.

Slade’s hands, still slick with Vaseline, find purchase on Dick’s hips largely with the aid of his fingernails. He doesn’t wait for approval before drawing out, leaving a horribly empty feeling behind for every bit he retracts. When he does pause, it’s to shove unceremoniously at the other’s spine so that he’s forced into an arch, and then he slams back in and it’s like flipping a switch.

Dick sees a burst of stars and shouts up at the vaulted ceilings. He doesn’t like to curse, especially not in a place of worship, but when his neck stops supporting him and he has to let his head droop, he can’t think of anything that feels quite as appropriate as a clear, succinct, “Shit!”

Slade laughs, digs his nails in deeper, and fucks him until Dick’s dizzy and can’t rightfully recall his own name, much less why he’s never done this before. Even the ropes biting painfully into his skin can’t dim the shocks of pleasure striking him over and over. The grunts of exertion from behind him are feeding into the frenzy, and he’s so lost in sensation he doesn’t notice how badly his thighs shake until he cracks his eyes open and peers down at them. He’s standing on tip-toe, trying his damndest to grind back against the man like he can possibly draw him in deeper than he already has.

He isn’t sure he’s capable of anything right now other than chasing his mounting orgasm and moaning in a continuous stream, like a broken record.

“Where were we on that ‘sir’ business, eh, kid?” Slade startles him by speaking, half-breathless, against his neck.

The excuse that he’s being fucked stupid is the only applicable one, but it’s the one he uses to justify the obedient, “Yes, sir!” that comes out. After that, it won’t stop; it’s like word vomit. “Right _there_! Yes, Mister Deathstroke, sir! Please!”

Slade mutters a curse under his breath, but Dick can still hear it. Deliriously, he grins, eyes still closed and face turned up toward the ceiling again. His wrists and ankles and _everything_ ache, but he’s so so so close. “Oh, oh god—I’m gonna—I can’t—”

“That’s right, cum for me, birdie.” Dick wonders why he hated the nickname before, because hearing it now makes his head swim pleasantly. “You’re gonna cum on my cock, aren’t you?”

He means to offer an unequivocal “yes,” but then Slade grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks his head back, using his other hand to drag him back onto his thrusts, and what comes out is a loud, unobstructed _wail_. If anyone was asleep before, they certainly weren’t now. Somehow, with a notorious contract killer behind him, he isn’t really worried about that.

In the next seconds he hits a body-wracking orgasm without even jerking himself off, and it’s as if every nerve is on fire. He can’t hear a thing past the blood rushing in his ears, but he feels Slade’s cock pulse inside and that drags out one last guttural groan from his now-depleted voice supply.

Unfortunately, they have to move quickly after that, because there are footsteps somewhere above, and they sound awfully swift.

Slade pulls out and zips up, offering a hand on the small of Dick’s back in what must have been the closest thing to either comfort or praise he can come up with.

Directly following the metallic sound of a sword being drawn, the ropes holding Dick’s wrists snap loose and fall to the ground, which is precisely what Dick does. He hits stone hard with his knees, but he can’t even begin to think about pain when there’s a man in robes yelling at them from the bottom of the stairs with all the fury of a victim who’s had something taken from him.

Face bright red, Dick tugs his jock back into place and tries to ignore the uncomfortable mix of Vaseline and cum streaking the insides of his thighs, which he’s sure is a good indicator that the precious sacrifice has been compromised after all.

The man manages to stomp three steps in their direction before the shadowy silhouette of the Batman lights up behind the church window, stopping him in his tracks. Glass shatters with a tremendous sound, and while Dick’s picking apart the ropes binding his ankles, he hears Slade whisper in his ear a soft, self-satisfied, “You’re welcome, brat,” before he vanishes like some sort of virgin-ruining ninja.

Dick tucks his knees together the instant the ropes are off and sits patiently while Batman finishes putting the fear of god into the unlucky cultist on the scene. When he’s done, he hands him his cape for coverage, which Dick graciously accepts.

He’s asked if he’s all right. His responding nod isn’t a lie. “Right as rain, Batman,” he says, maybe a tad too chipper for the scenario. “In fact, never felt better!”


End file.
